Click, Clack, Crack, Snap
by Candy3314
Summary: AU! Whump! Raised instead with the mentor Slade instead of Batman, Robin is now Ravager, an infamous criminal that, under the strict control of his mentor, pulls off studious tasks and crimes against humanity. But what is to come as the Batman himself challenges Ravager's ethics, and perhaps one day, will pull him to the side of justice?... Not if Slade can help it.
1. The Best Errand Yet

**There will be multiple POV switches in later chapters! Please enjoy :) **

Honestly, this had had to be my most unique errand yet, followed closely next to the Big-Bad-Batman. You could say a man approximately within his early 30s running around in a bat suit and actually coming off as swear to Hell intimidating by FAR would have to be the weirdest thing you've ever encountered- And hey, so did I- But heck, try Mystifying-Ghost-Rider. Of course, he wasn't actually a ghost (duh), just a chemical junky who likes to pretend he's a ghost, and throughly flaunt it. I didn't even have a problem with it, other than that those were my Master's chemicals he's flaunting, and the big guy wants 'em back.

Staring down at the elliptically shaped cage of steel and adrenaline, I could only slightly conjure up some excitement that the testosterone and nacho cheesed audience seemed to literally spit. I wanted to be just as exhilarated to be here- I really did! Maybe just as much as the front row belly-beer coated in red paint man, but really, spending most of your childhood as a circus kid, jumping off every height imaginable and then a next part of your life spent trained stone hard to steal and beat other's to their near afterlife (all the while having been shot at a round total of who knows how many times), really took the fun out of all the necessity barbaric ways of entertainment. At least laying on the high beam, wind nice and cool, flipping my cape about, was nice.

The already hyped crowd roared to an even higher pitch, the death metal music chiming in with their rumpus as cooly striped neon vehicles entered from a black tent that blended right into the beautiful night sky onto the dusty gravel, their riders waving enthusiastically to the crowd, some even doing a couple tricks and kicking up more dust into the air, which was appreciated with much more shrill cries.

Their numbers as well as names were called overly-hyped up through a comically addicting to listen to voice on speakers placed throughout the make-shift stadium, and I made due with crouching up to standing on the metal bars as the wind picked up my cape more frantically, pushing at the soles of my black-clad feet and sending a smooth chill up my spine and I knew tonight'd be fun, grin already catching on.

The motorcycles zipped off, and from the stands came stage steam, bright spotlights spinning erratically around as the sound of the motors outplayed the already deafening shouts and music, but the sheer overture of my senses only made me grin more as adrenaline coursed through my body, thoughts of 'I'm going to lose focus of my footing' and 'I might fall' came through my head. The bars shook and vibrated under my feet but I kept perfect balance, waiting patiently for our ghost man to show.

It'd been a spreading rumor for this famous biker to crash into shows like this one and take the crowd for his own tricks, and to top it off, he was a ghost. You could see the appeal. These rumors had become so popular, in fact, that before they'd let people into the bleachers, I'd heard most of the conversations in the crowd revolving mostly around (if not the unbearable heat, that is) this ghost and not the actual show they were seeing.

They wouldn't be disappointed.

Before the riders could enter the obnoxiously named 'Death Pit' (a real _'Death Pit'_ is a 2 foot room with no visible exit and a whole lot of arsine gas waiting on a timer, thank you very much), an even more obnoxiously loud '_zroom!' _and resounding _'screech!_' exceeded all other noises, the speakers squealing into static as the fog cleared, and a bright white light shun from one corner of the outdoor stadium. All the drivers stopped in the faint remains of the stage mist, looking over at the silhouette rolling dauntingly, glowing in a strange unnatural way.

"It's the Ghost Rider!" a girl too old for the pig tails she was sporting shrieked, throwing her limbs around as if to draw more attention to herself even though she was literally the only one talking now.

Many shouts and chatter and even more hyperactive-excitement than before was the result as the audience was once again lively, and as if it were his cue, the silhouette biker slammed the gas of his rumbling motor and he wen't flying through the stadium, gliding along just out of reach of the bleachers in a glowing blue light. He cackled harmoniously, and the other drivers were trapped within his cycles as management began streaming out, calling out into their ear pieces as some even screamed obscenities at the unexpected guest.

A series of harsh clangs could be once again heard as the mysterious rider pulled out a thick chain, repeatedly slamming it along the ground, taunting the other drivers as he made his loops. The dust was building in the air as the events on the ground become less and less visible, and I began thinking it may be time to intervene.

The buzz of his motorcycle could no longer be heard, and the audience fell quieter as they tried to spot him within the dust before finally his ghostly glow could be seen atop the Death Pit, and his face became visible.

He was deathly pale- almost grey but still glowing unnaturally. His eyes were lined in artificial and natural darkness where his stark white irises blared out from his skull. His hair, on the contrary, was jet black and long and absolutely ridiculous- his outfit just the same with no armor; just leathers and peeks at his deathly skin. His bike, however, was a different monster entirely with huge engines, loud speakers, fire spouting from its pipes, spikes, and that same glow that Mr. Ghost was previously mentioned to have had.

He'd _clearly_ loaded up on whatever Slade's chemical was, and from what I can guess, used it to perhaps fuel his bike or maybe used it as material in the bike. Though the later was less likely.

"_Are you ready for a real show!_" he broadcasted in a raspy, electrical voice which I also guessed was the aftermath of Slade's drug. Boldly atop his fortress, he lifted his hands and began swinging his corroded chains manically.

A woman (heavily donned in her chest area, I couldn't help but notice as she jiggled uncontrollably) screamed widely, "Yes! Yes!" as the audience screamed with her in delight.

He smirked, spreading his arms out like some Jesus symbol, basking in his glory before I took it upon me to end the fest with the release of two expertly aimed shruikens to only nick both his arms. From this height the force I'd have to throw into them to even get close to him would surely rip his arm off or come damn near close if I wen't for the actual limb, so getting his attention would have to come first, kicking butt later.

Jumping from the high beam, grapple hook as my back up, I made it to the crunchy ground, slowly making my way to the sphere cage where atop he looked about in confusion.

His (insanely more creepy now that I was down to his level) white eyes looked franticly around the stadium revealing, now that his smugness was out of the way, his aggressive and unstable self. Most chemical druggies were such underneath it all.

"_Ha! You missed, loser_." His cocky (if a little shaky now) grin returned.

As if.

"_Who-?!_" he began to shout before I reached once again into my black (and very crowded looking) utility belt, flicking my wrist with much more ease up to his seat upon the throne. His eyes widened in shock as the bola wrapped quickly around his middle, pinning his arms to his sides before the balls attached to the string hit him hard in the gut, securing their place tightly around him.

The audience gasped as he lost his balance, falling from the metal sphere along with his motorcycle that was hooked in with his legs. A gruesome snap came after his short fall, the motorcycle trapping one of his legs under its cruel weight, most likely breaking it like a twig, if his painful howls indicated me right.

The formerly screaming-of-joy-woman now began screams of terror, the whole stadium following her like before. The rushed paddling and crunching sounds indicated the leave of their lively crowd, and roars from the other drivers showed that they, too, were making their escape. A shame, really. I hadn't had an audience for my lifework in such a long time.

His painful wails softened to quiet mumblings as he began wiggling in his restraints. There was no need for worry, because if his own vehicle hadn't done the job with his leg, the bola still strapped him tight from the use of his arms, and with his leg in its current state, standing wasn't high on the list of possibilities.

"_Who-Who are you?! Show yourself you coward! When I get my hands on you-you no good piece of-_"

"Hey, watch the language," I commented out of instinct, laughing a bit as his squirming body stiffened.

Believe it or not, but the one and only Slade Wilson, mercenary and killer of thousands, and my mentor, could not _stand _curse words, and I have the bruises to prove it. If I've_ ever_ seen a more whacked up moral compass...

His (still creepy) irises stared blindly at me, and I now noticed their slight red tint, magnified by his searing agitation, and it honestly was hard to not rub at my own eyes, itchy at the sight. They flickered uneasily into the darkness, unseeing of me in my camouflage.

I smiled. Black really was the best attire for this type of stuff, and I was covered in it. Black and red were my primary colors with a full body suit of black with only minimal amounts of armor that were barely visible and under my suit (slows me down, and for one who relishes so much on speed, it's a no-no), and then accessories such as my belt, gloves, the inside of my cape (the outside's black), and 'S' symbol across my chest a rich blood color. Even my hair was black! That wasn't as intentional though; I'm a natural raven-head.

This was something only one vigilante seemed to catch onto (two guesses who), the rest much more preferred their bright colored undies. Maybe it was a thing? I didn't feel much like trying it out, though... Not that Slade would ever allow it. Maybe I'll ask the next one I run into, and being the thief I was, that confrontation'd come soon enough.

"_Get out here! Face me like a man you FREAK!_" his struggles were getting increasingly louder, aggressive, and annoying so I finally stepped out from my comfy spot in the dark.

"Ok, ok, chill it, and lay off the cigarettes while you're at, k electrolarynx?" I quipped, and his eyes were on my domino mask's, immediately in rage.

"_What do you want?! Let me go- get this THING off me!_" he quickly demanded in a desperate need to find his dominance and intimidate me.

I rolled my eyes and walked forward to his crippling body that now grew silent as I approached, bending down to grip his greasy black hair in my gloved palms (they'd definitely need some washing later), wrenching his head up. I smiled sickly into his fearful pupils.

"I'm here for the material you stole from Slade," I hissed, eyes he couldn't even see piercing his.

"_Material?_" he gasped, and my eyes grew to slits as I wrenched his head higher before slamming his head into the prickly ground.

"You know what I'm talking about. Y'know, you're whole 'I am Ghost-Man' trick? I know what's behind the scenes..." He stayed quiet a moment too long after I said this, and I grinded his scalp further into the crushed rock. "_Where _is it?"

"_The bike. O-On the bike- Oh God, please get it off me,_" he choked, squeezing his eyes shut as his body shook uncontrollably now under the weight.

I removed my palm from his head, glancing slowly to the bike before looking back to the body beneath me. "I know that, Doofus. I mean on _you_."

"_I don't have any on me, I swear! Please-PLEASE get it off!_" His trembling had shredded down to mere instinctual quivers by now, his eyes still scrunched shut, and I knew he was going to pass out from the pain any moment now if I didn't relieve him from the heaviness.

I could just let him pass out and find the synthetic through scavenging around his stuff, but I liked things fast so I stood, uprighting the motorcycle from his crushed body easily. He heaved loudly, wheezing and convulsing and I made damn sure not to look down at his mutilated leg as I kicked open the thick leather part of the motorcycle, looking in to see a normal operating engine with a normal power source, meaning... The guy had _built the acidic into the vehicle?_ I mean, I'd pondered it but I hadn't actually thought it was even possible. Looks like I'm taking a ride home.

"Damn, who'd you buy this bad boy from? You're not telling me _you_ made this, are ya?" I laughed, inspecting the parts in interest. Now that I examined it, the glow was radiating off everything besides the leather and the obvious entertainment condiments, and even some of those were lit by a source that was not the chemical. Was this even safe? It might just be letting off some sort of radiation...

"_Hell yeah I did; born and bred by ME, and you should really look after your captives, KID!_"

I flipped backwards lazily as a heavy chain slammed the surface of the vehicle or what would have been me if I hadn't moved. Not a dent was left though on the miraculous bike as the Ghost-Man rose, holding the handles for support.

I crossed my arms and pouted at the sight of his other arm reaching over to the other that was supporting him, touching some weird pad within his leather vest that what I guessed was the trigger for the pulses of glowing energy now rippling through his skin. His eyes were now aflame in viciousness and something very, very unnatural.

"Awe, you said you had none on you," I grumbled through a mocking frown, arms still crossed as he slung himself into the seat.

"_Tough luck!_" he growled and charged forward at my small body.

Unmoving until he was mere inches from me, I placed my hand on top of the steering head, legs swinging over the vehicle and straight to his head. His shock, however, quickly shifted and he ducked his head in a record time so I only scraped his ear. I slid onto the ground on the opposite side of where I started. I slipped out a small box from my belt which I casually spun out to a full length metal staff, and waited for his next move.

He came speeding back, this time a few feet to the side of my body with his chain ready to clobber my head in. This time, I didn't wait. Pelting full force to the oncoming vehicle, I waited until I was close enough and then leapt up into the air into a front flip, clashing my staff into his chain, which from the impact and helpful physics, swung around the pole, rendering both our weapons useless and connected in our hands as I planted both feet onto the neck of the bike, crouched onto his still moving motorcycle.

He growled, glare fixed on me as he shook his hand holding the chain, trying to get loose. I only grinned and swept a foot out from under me to throw at least his midsection off balance, but he deflected with the very arm he was holding the chain with, but I'd kicked hard and he struggled to hold my leg off him which was quickly replaced with a punch coming the other way. He slid back and once again deflected with his arm.

I smirked before swiftly receding my staff back to its cube, the chain dropped free, and I busied my hands once again on his shoulders before hoisting the rest of my body up and crashed my feet straight into his face, meanwhile throwing my hands off his shoulders and back behind me to the now empty handles.

Ghost-Man flew back from the force (flipping, actually), almost falling off completely before in a desperate reach he caught on to the end of the motorcycle going at a speed so fast the world past as a blur- Oh, that reminds me! Driving.

I quickly spun off my back to face the front, and just in time to steer us hastily out of the way of a mean looking bolder. We were no longer within the stadium and now out into the open desert-like land. I glanced behind me to see Ghosty still hanging on there, making slow progress up the backside of the bike and I cackled, pulling a sharp left which nearly had him flying. He lashed like a rag doll (yeah, that leg wasn't looking too good) in the air, my cape letting off whipping cracks as it fluttered.

Slade had only let me drive a motorcycle a couple times (he made sure I had experience driving nearly every operable vehicle in history), and I soon had a new taste for why exactly I'd always been so insistent on driving them. We whisked timelessly over endless land and sky, and if not for the only slightly observable changes in the land and the smothering pressure of the wind, I could have swore we hadn't even been moving at all. The sky was pecked with myriad stars that were unrecognizable in Gotham's mask of polluted atmosphere, and I took full advantage of the fact that this was probably one of the few times I'll ever in my life time see a night sky so bright.

When I was younger, with my parents, I lived in a traveling circus. I was young and rash, so I rarely found the patience to watch the skies, but at particular places like the National something-something in Utah or that one time at Valantia Island my Ma would pin me down on top of our trailer, saying, "Look at the sky.", and then we'd watch the bright creases of light all night until I fell asleep, or Dad would let me look through his telescope to see Jupiter or Mars while he mapped the constellations and pointed them out to me. He'd say, "Y'know, bud, my Dad, and your Grandfather, was an astronomer.", and I'd happily reply back that I was gonna be an astronaut.

"_Help! HELP!_" a shrill voice came from the corner of my conscious, and I glimpsed leisurely over my shoulder to a screaming lunatic just a strand away from a plummet not kindly minded.

"Ah, shush up already, I'm almost done," I reprimanded, turning back to view the glistening night a longing moment longer.

"_You're-you're CRAZY!_" he puffed, clawing at the loose amount of leather he'd gotten his hands on.

"A bit," I respired gently.


	2. The Home In The Ground

**I'm not even gonna lie, I'm incredibly excited for this! I have allot of the story down and damn it's gonna be good... Or at least I think so. Please stay tuned, and thank you for all the follows and favorites. Enjoy! **

Clipping Ghost-Man securely into place among the railings in the bleachers, I stood, slipping on my black string bag which I'd left in the stadium and walked casually back to the bike. I'd tied down Ghost-Guy for the cops to prevent any vengeful come backs from him, or at least for now; Arkham Asylum wasn't exactly famous for its spectacular prevention of breakouts, after all. That is, if he'd even go to Arkham. I wasn't very sure which city this wasteland was located closest to.

Tossing a vile of florid acid happily, I placed it into one of my belt loops and swung my leg over the newly acquired motorcycle. One to add to Slade's many arrays of collectables. Waving energetically farewell to the groaning soon-to-be-jail-bait, I cascaded back over the desert land, pressing a quick passcode into my arm computer which instantly connected me to Slade.

"That took some time."

Even now, after nearly five years of apprenticeship, I'd still hesitate under that direct yet so unpredictable sound that was Slade's voice. Not that I'd ever show that, though. The best way to fight uncertainty, after all, is with bold pretending-to-be-certain that will hopefully end up getting you somewhere, be it a good place or a bad place. Or killed, in my case.

"What can I say? It was a good show."

The show wasn't actually all that good, I'd just enjoyed hurling Ghost-Man around so much that I'd lost track of time.

"I'm sending the pick up coordinates to you now."

"No need for a pick up this time around, boss; I've got a ride," I said smiling, adding, "and I think you're gonna like this one, Slade!" My voice had a certain sing-song ring to it at the end that I could never get away with in person.

From the short silence that followed, I could tell he was curious, but only gave a soft affirming nod of acknowledgment before he quit the call with a soft hiss of the screen going back to its neutral drawback, and after being left untouched for a couple more seconds, blacked out.

I'd rode until sun rise, which might I mention, was just as invigorating as the past night's stars, but also sort of dreading because once sun came up, heat rose with it, and out of all temperatures, heat was my least favorite.

Slade had trained me extensively in any and all weathers imagined, but that didn't mean I liked it any more than before. I could only endure it better, and when it comes to just about anything of my work-like, enduring is the key element. That, and consistency.

Luckily, the morning was still cool when I'd finally reached the small neighborhoods, green coming back into view, stores, shops, and then finally, the outline of Gotham's towers.

Our base (I didn't feel entirely comfortable calling it 'home') was on the close outskirts of the city, in a big solid box of a building near a harbor with plenty of other box-buildings. It was perfectly camouflaged among the other barely used storage units. To say my home, though, was a large storage unit wouldn't be quite correct. To be better put, I lived _under_ a storage unit. In the ground.

Riding up to storage unit number 205, I rolled slowly into the garage. The storehouse was relatively empty with only a few crates and a ladder on one end that lead to a high, steely balcony across the entire one side of the room. Under this platform was an old fashioned elevator, with the grate fence as its door and a considerable amount of ways to get your limbs or any other bodily possessions slashed off.

I left the bike for Slade's robos and walked into the elevator. I took the rusty crank, pulling then unwinding in a secret rhythm which only a certain handful of people knew. By the time I was done, it began to escalate quickly downward. Through the holes of the grate I could see myself passing the first few levels of Slade's hideaway where manufacturing goods and labs were, though he only had a few. Slade was more of a mercenary than a mad scientist. The many colors of these few factories (where only machines worked) were steamy, orange in an illuminating type of way, and dark.

The elevator clicked on until slowing to a stop upon a seemingly dead exit, but as the grate whined apart, I lifted my left hand to the cold, metallic surface. The shoal glowed a high-tech blue before the 'dead end' opened apart silently to a room which I stepped into.

The elevator was the very last thing you'd see in Slade's hideout that was even remotely considered 'old', by the way. Apart from his collections.

The entire room was a blinding white, from the walls to the floor to the few accessories kept around the the simply barren den. This round room was huge, with a high ceiling and wide encompass, but only contained a small rest area and kitchen.

The kitchen, shielded by an island bar with stools never used, was for Wintergreen, Slade's partner, and contained many appliances of steel and black colors. Even though Slade made sure I knew how to operate each one, I was no cook and only understood the nutritional aspects of food as well as which fruits, plants, meats, and spices were dangerous under certain circumstances. Once in awhile Wintergreen would cook up something good for me, but that was under the radar of Slade who only saw the survival benefits of eating.

The rest room was three, boxed in their position white couches, and a black, clear coffee table sat right in the dot middle of the couch's shape. There was no TV, but I was never a big fan of those anyways, being mostly on the road during my childhood and never having the right connection and/or equipment for it. I did like the few movies I had seen, though, but I'd never ask Slade to get me one.

Meetings with Slade and Wintergreen (especially with them both there at the same time) were rare in here, as it was only used with the influence of Wintergreen's will. I, too, had no need for this room. If I was going to relax, I'd do it in my own quarters, thank you very much! And definitely not within the sight of Slade. Not that he'd punt me the moment he caught me with my eyes closed or whatnot, but I'd never want a man like Slade to see me in any kind of vulnerable state, even if he was my guardian. I also, as previously mentioned, had no skill in cooking, so the value of this place was but nothing to me if I didn't have a meal or a conversation to have with Wintergreen, who honestly could be my lifeline sometimes.

I glanced to the clock on the island counter; it was just reaching 6, the usual time I was up and ready anyways. I'd been up all night, but was still awake enough to carry on with my usual duties like I knew Slade would probably force me to do so anyhow.

I was trained to stay active in all hours of the day, with as little or as much sleep as I could get, and still perform in the same accuracy every time. The furtherest I've gone was six days before Slade brought a stop to it. I honestly don't remember much from that time, but I do remember the heavy ache in my limbs, fingers, and shoulders- the icky taste in my mouth and a mind searing with anger at every word Slade'd say to me.

I walked further in to change into my casual wear (which wasn't at all casual, but was for my routine-life locked miles under the earth). I wouldn't have time for a shower. It was just as I left that I noticed the familiar shape of my guardian sat upon one of the couches, a simple, black journal held in his hands. My eyes snapped to his as the journal slapped shut, concealing its pasty, accessible pages.

His one, unchanging eye looked into me, and I leisurely changed my course to sitting on one of the couches beside Slade.

"Did you get my gift?" I asked, restraining the urge to plop my legs somewhere irregularly.

"Yes, and with all its... _contents_."

He meant the acid, which might I add, was literally made _into_ the bike. I still couldn't get over how cool that was.

No longer able to restrain the urge, I plopped my legs nonchalant onto the coffee table. His eye flickered to my dirty feet. I smirked knowingly at him, but his gaze was already back on the journal.

"It's being molted down as we speak."

I blinked in surprise at this. Usually Slade didn't give me any information I didn't need, but as I handled the words a little more in my head I began to discern his intent. This was his weird way of informing me that _no, you are not going to be riding this motorcycle again. _

I refrained from pouting- And it was such a cool bike, too! Maybe it needed a little patching up, sure ('cause, I mean, the spikes _had_ to go, and what's with the cheesy goth theme?), but it ran beauuutifully.

"Really? Wouldn't it be more useful whole than to just boil up into molten and throw into some safe, just to be stolen again?" I asked, leaning forward. "And then they'll make another cool bike and have all the fun while I'm stuck with pick ups-"

"This _lethal chemical _is unstable," he jeered, one permanently narrow eye looking over to me, "Plus, you've had your fun." He then resumed to his journal, and I could tell he was smirking beneath that cowl.

I looked at him with a 'that's not in the least bit funny' frown and he gave me an unimpressed eye scowl. It was still for a moment in the relaxed atmosphere that often came after a successful mission.

"Is there anything more you'd like to 'gift' me?" he asked icily with the tiny jab at my former sentence and I only grinned as I handed over the vile within my belt.

He grabbed it with his cold, gloved hand and I felt tingles of where his (not even bare!) hand had once touched mine (which, too, wasn't even bare). It was laughable how intimidated I was of him, but that's what Slade had wanted and I suppose that usually if things go according to Slade, they'll go according to my needs as well.

I retreated my hand back to my spot on the couch and watched him examine the chemical. He nodded to himself quietly, gazing at the vile which he rolled in his hands in a suspecting manner.

"Change and get a quick bite to eat. You're late for training," he said, standing from his spot and into the white hallway on the right. I followed soon after, but this time onto the left hallway.

Now, it may have seemed like I'd gotten off easy, but punishment was sure to come later during training. Slade never stood for lateness, and was persistent with his rules. Every spoken and unspoken rule was enforced with intense ferocity. I knew what was expected of me, and no begging or argument (no matter how valid) would ever change that; even if it came out to be for the better, which rarely, if ever, occurs.

When I'd finally reached my room after passing exactly seven identical white doors, I stopped on the eighth and repeated the same process from which I got into the first, circular room. The doors swished open, and I entered into my tiny, well kept room.

In the corner was a twin-sized bed with white sheets, neatly made with just one, firm pillow. Beside the stiff mattress was a small side table, also white, with a lamp atop, which was also white, and a stack of numerous non-fiction books. On the opposite side of all this was a drawer that was, as you might have guessed, white. This held on the first two slots my clothes and uniform, and then in the other two books, maps, markers, a few notepads, and puzzles. Then right in between all this was a regular door with a doorknob (thank God for normalcy, if I had to see another control panel just to open a freaking door I'd have an inner breakdown) which was my bathroom. It only carried necessity items like the toilet, shower (which was very cold, and very, very tiny), a sink, and one of those mirrors that can open up to hold your pills, toothpaste, and whatever. It may be bland, but it was simple and neat. I'd always stayed in closed spaces and cold showers my whole life anyways. At least I didn't have to share it with two people or more like when I lived in a trailer with my parents.

I didn't waste anymore time then I needed to, and stripped from my suit which landed scattered upon my bed. Opening up the drawer I slipped on my usual training attire, a plain white T-shirt and a stretchy black sports-material pair of bottoms with the same shoes that came with my uniform on missions: a black, comfortable boot. Sometimes Slade'd make me take off the shoes and go barefoot, but I always brought them just in case.

This getup was what I'd usually wear if not on a mission. I had a few pairs of civilian clothing just in case, but I'd only donned those, what, four times? I told you consistency was a major element in Slade's coaching.

After dress up, I jogged back over to the main room and hopped onto one of the stools at the bar, reaching over onto the counter for an apple in a black wire basket. I munched on this as I hopped back down and wen't back to the left hallway, where the main training room was. I'd become the master of snacking on the go, and by the time I'd reached the fourth door, all that was left of the apple's cruel juicy fate was its core.

The training room was a decent size, and perhaps one of the most colored rooms of the shelter... Well, at least in a delusional type of way. It was upgraded with some of the greatest technology, and when hit with a special projector could simulate nearly any canvas. When not alit, it was just a simple white room, with a few training equipment and tools.

Slade hadn't shown up yet, but I busied myself with some much needed stretching. My arms were still sore from the hours of motorcycle. I sighed deeply as I heard the chinks of my sockets popping, throwing my arms above my head and pulling at my fingers to span out my palm. I moved my head every which way, pulling my legs to places above my head and when I sat on the floor, laid my entire torso atop them, closing my eyes and feeling the muscles pull beneath my skin.

I was due for a nice stretch; I couldn't risk building up that prohibiting muscle. My specialty wasn't brawn (ha! Not in the _least_), but actually my acrobatic ability. Muscle could strain the limits, and take the best I could possibly reach in gymnastics to a much lower level easily without that extra range in flexibility. I also relied upon my speed, and that added weight? No good. Luckily I'd stayed as lithe as can be my whole life, taking my mother's genes on the height and size domain, while I adopted my Dad's dark hair. I had both their eyes, though; a nice, cornflower blue.

As I mused over our family reunions and Mom's midget folk next to Dad's belfry of skyscrapers, I finished up on my usual stretches and warmed up my body a bit, doing simple exorcizes.

I wonder what we'd be doing today? There was... somewhat of a routine to my instruction, but it was usually mixed every day. We may start out with a usual, basic workout like hand on hand combat, running on the track next door, or something like that until Slade recognized something I lacked in during these usual routines. That, or he'd do whatever he was in the mood for.

My favorite things to work on were definitely staff (I think it's my soul weapon), on the field exorcizes (involving the projector previously mentioned), and on the field vehicle exorcizes (for obvious reasons).

My least favorite subjects were acrobatic skills (Slade tended to push me my hardest in this area), mental exorcizes (traumatic and lots of headaches- This was also an area where he pushed me to the brink even though that's the whole point I guess but whatever I don't like it), and guns.

Guns would take a longer explanation than my usual sidenote, 'cause see, it was just a weird subject for me. I never really had a problem with guns (never thought about it, really), but when Slade had presented it to me things didn't... feel right. I was naturally talented at the gun, and usually when I'm particularly good at something, Slade likes to assault me so far into the subject that I ultimately begin to hate it like with gymnastics- But that's just it! That's what I'd _expected_. But Slade would just sit there as I fired off rounds, even having fun doing it, and after the continuous hours of that, with my ears numb to any noise, he'd walk over calmly, clasp my shoulder and smile down at me, pleased with himself... or... was it with _me_? It was so weird to see him not further explore my capabilities in a weapon, just settle for what I'd learned myself, and _trust me_ with that. There was also the fact that this was a _mercenary_ handing me a _gun_, and then asking me to shoot it, and guns were famous for their spectacular success of, like, _killing people_ and yeah, just little stuff like that. But in all seriousness, Slade hasn't made me kill yet, or even hint at it... but wouldn't he want me to do it one day? I was his apprentice- An apprentice of an assassin, and I hadn't even touched the subject of killing. But the way Slade'd smile; it was like he knew something. Was this his hint towards me? That he wanted me to kill, and was just leaving it to me to decide that for myself? That sounded far too considerate of him... But if it were the case, would I ever do it? I'd just always assumed Slade would force me into it one day, that it'd somehow be justified, that I'd have _help_, that I'd have no _choice_...

Whenever I couldn't understand Slade, is when I'm most afraid of him. So gun practice was one of those times where I'd resort back to a child under the eyes of the predator. It was so stupid- I was finally being praised for something and now I cower in fear of it. It really was quite silly.

But guns aside (Thank God, my heads hurting), the rest of my training stretched to anything you could possibly imagine. The ones I'd mentioned before were just a few recurring ones that stood out the most to me. Some subjects only happned once a year. In fact, my cooking lesson had only been briefed over once. I'd been told 'Don't forget', and I didn't. Every once in awhile he'd spring up those surprise quizzes over subjects covered months ago to make sure I had it memorized, and if I didn't, I was punished and then left to figure out the answers myself until the next day when he'd ask me again, and I'd better have the answers.

A few ones I can think of now just off the top of my head is shields, climbing equipment, climbing in general, equipment disablement and then rebuilding, robotics (Slade's favorite), business, politics, wildlife survival (another favorite of his), bomb tracking, people tracking, Gotham's villains profiles, worldwide profiles, endurance (Oh look! It's another one of Slade's favorites!), thieving, code breaking, hacking (I had a good knack for this one), _blind_ hand to hand combat (can I add this one to my least favorites list as well?), and heaps more. To say the least, I stay busy.

Slade's method was to hit it hard, and then hit it harder than that. Most sessions were never ending, and times when we would end (and I used that term lightly) was never scheduled. We just went until Slade felt he's at a satisfying end. Passing out or vomiting was not an excuse, but I rarely did that anymore.

Then there was the times when Slade'd outright beat me. I'd like to say there's a proper reason for each bashing, and sometimes there was, but most of the time... I'd often thought that it was Slade's way of keeping me on my toes, but why couldn't he just force combat onto me if that were the case? Then there was the part of me that knew; The part that secretly knew that Slade did it to vent his frustrations- that he did it to assert his dominance over me, but that was an almost insecure thing to do. Well, I guess I was just lucky to see that side of him then. That, or very, very unfortunate.

"_Remember, Dick: Second priority is to find an opponents weak point. Your first priority is to conceal yours."_

Figures that Slade's weakest point is when he's beating the life out of you.

**... Hint, hint, a hero will be featuring next chapter...**


End file.
